The Apex Book of World SF 2 (39 page)

"I don't know."

"You don't know?
You? Her confidant, who…"

I shut up. By Lugh,
what an idiot I am, I thought. What a bloody blockhead.

"Don't torture
yourself, Morholt," she said. "Ask me."

"About what?"

"About Iseult and
King Mark's wedding night."

"Ah, this. Believe
me or not, Branwen, I'm not interested."

"I think you're
lying."

I didn't answer. She
was right.

"It was just like
people say," she said quietly. "We swapped in Mark's bed, soon after the
candles were put out. I'm not sure if it was necessary. Mark was so charmed
with Iseult of the Golden Hair that he would accept her lack of virginity
without reproach. He was not that fussy. But that's what we did. I did it
because of my bad conscience after what had happened on the ship. I thought it
was all my doing, mine and that of the magic potion's I had given them. I
assumed the guilt and wanted to pay for it. Only later, it turned out that
Tristan and Iseult slept with each other even in Baile Atha Cliath. And that I
was not guilty of anything."

"It's all right,
Branwen. Spare me the details. Leave it alone."

"No. Listen to the
end. Listen to what the minstrels will never sing about. Iseult ordered that as
soon as I had given proof of my virginity I should sneak out of bed and swap
with her again. Perhaps she was afraid the king would find out, or maybe she
didn't want me to get used to him, who knows? She was with Tristan in the room
next door, both busy with each other. She freed herself from his arms and went
to the Cornishman as she stood, naked, without even combing her tangled hair. I
stayed, naked, with Tristan. Till dawn. I don't know how or why."

I was silent.

"That's not the end,"
said Branwen, turning her face towards the fire. "After that, there was the
honeymoon during which the Cornishman wouldn't leave Iseult even for a minute.
Thus, Tristan could not get close to her. But to me he could. To spare you the
details, after these few months I was in love with him. For life and death. I
know you are surprised. It's true, the only thing we had in common was the bed
where, it was obvious to me even then, Tristan was trying to forget his love
for Iseult, his jealousy of Mark, his guilt. He treated me as a substitute. I
knew that and it didn't help."

"Branwen…"

"Be patient,
Morholt. It's still not the end. The honeymoon passed, Mark resumed his normal
royal duties, and Iseult began to have plenty of free time. And Tristan…Tristan
ceased to notice me. Worse, he began to avoid me. While I was going crazy with
love."

She fell silent,
found amongst the furs my hand and squeezed it tightly.

"I made several
attempts to forget him," she carried on, staring at the ceiling. "Tintagel was
full of young, uncomplicated knights. But it didn't work. One morning I took a
boat to the sea. When I was far enough from the shore, I jumped."

"Branwen," I said,
pulling her close, trying to smother with my embrace the shudders convulsing
her body. "It's all past now. Forget about it. Like many others, you were
sucked into the whirl of their love, love that proved unhappy to them, and
fatal to others. Even I…I caught it on the head, though I merely brushed
against this love, knowing nothing about it. In Dun Laoghaire, Tristan defeated
me, although I was stronger and more experienced. That's because he fought for
Iseult, for his love. I didn't know about it, got a good bash on the head and,
like you, I owe my life to those who happened to be near me and who thought it
right to help me. To save me. To pull me out of that unfathomable depth. And so
we were saved, you and me. We are alive and to hell with everything else."

She slipped her arm
under my head and stroked my hair. She touched the swelling that ran from the
temple right down to my ear. I winced. The hair on the scar grows in all
directions and a touch can sometimes cause an unbearable pain.

"The whirl of their
love," she whispered. "Their love pulled us in. You and me. But were we really
saved? What if we are still falling into that depth, together with them? What
fate awaits us? The sea? The rudderless boat?"

"Branwen…"

"Love me, Morholt.
The sea is asking for us, can you hear? But as long as we are here, as long as
the legend isn't over…"

"Branwen…"

"Love me, Morholt."

I tried to be
gentle. I tried to be considerate. I tried to be Tristan, King Mark and all the
uncomplicated knights of Tintagel rolled into one. From the mass of desires
whirling inside me, I kept only one: I wanted her to forget, forget about
everything. I tried to make her believe, if only for as long as I held her in
my arms, that there was only me. I tried. Believe me.

In vain.

Or so it seemed to
me.

 

Not a sign of sails.
The sea…

 

The sea has the
colour of Branwen's eyes.

I pace the room like
a wolf in a cage. My heart is pounding as if it wanted to shatter my ribs.
Something is squeezing my chest, my throat, something strange, something that's
sitting inside me. I hurl myself on the bed. To hell with it. I close my eyes
and see the golden sparks. I can smell the scent of apples. Branwen. The scent
of a falcon's feathers as it sits on my glove when I return from hunting. The
golden sparks. I see her face. I see the curve of her cheek, the small perky
nose. The roundness of her arm. I see her… I carry her…

I carry her on the
inner side of my eyelids.

 

"Morholt?"

 

"You are not asleep?"

"No, I can't… The
sea…"

"I'm with you,
Branwen."

"For how long? How
much time have we got left?"

"Branwen…"

"Tomorrow…
Tomorrow the ship from Tintagel will be here."

"How do you know?"

"I simply do."

Silence.

"Morholt?"

"Yes, Branwen?"

"We are bound
together. Tied to this wheel of torture, sucked into the whirl. Chained.
Tomorrow, here in Carhaing, the chain will break. I knew that the moment I saw
you on the beach. When I realised that you were alive. When I realised I was
alive, too. But we do not live for each other, not any more. We are merely a
tiny part in the fates of Tristan of Lionesse and Iseult of the Golden Hair
from the Emerald Isle. Here, in the castle of Carhaing, we found each other
only to lose each other. The only thing that binds us together is a legend
about love, which is not our legend. In which we play a role we cannot
understand. A legend that perhaps won't even mention our roles, or it will warp
and falsify them, will put into our mouths words we never said, will ascribe to
us deeds we never did. We do not exist, Morholt. There is only a legend that is
about to end."

"No, Branwen," I
said, trying to make my voice sound hard, determined and full of conviction. "You
mustn't say that. It's sorrow, nothing else, that makes you say these words.
True, Tristan of Lionesse is dying and even if Iseult of the Golden Hair is on
the ship sailing from Tintagel, I'm afraid she may be too late. And even though
I, too, am saddened by this, I shall never agree that the only thing that binds
us together is the legend. I'll never agree with this, Branwen, lying next to
you, holding you in my arms. At this moment, it's Tristan who doesn't exist for
me, the legend, the castle of Carhaing. There is only the two of us."

"I, too, hold you in
my arms, Morholt. Or so it seems to me. But I do know that we don't exist.
There is only the legend. What will become of us? What will happen tomorrow?
What decision will we have to make? What will become of us?"

"Fate will decide.
An accident. This entire legend to which we so stubbornly return, is a result
of an accident. A series of accidents. If it weren't for this blind fate, there
would be no legend. Then, in Dun Laoghaire, just think Branwen, if it weren't
for blind fate…it could have been him, not I…"

I stopped,
frightened by the sudden thought, horrified by the words pressing onto my lips.

"Morholt," whispered
Branwen." Fate's done with us all there was to do. The rest cannot be the result
of an accident. We are beyond the rule of accident. What is ending, is ending
for both of us. It's possible…"

"What, Branwen?"

"That perhaps then,
in Dun Laoghaire—"

"Branwen!"

"—that your wound
was mortal? Perhaps…I drowned in the bay?"

"Branwen! But we are
alive!"

"Are you sure? Where
had we come from to find ourselves on that beach, you and me, at the same time?
Do you remember? Don't you think it possible we were brought by the rudderless
boat? That very same boat which one day brought Tristan to the mouth of the
river Liffey? The boat from Avalon, looming out of the mist, filled with the
scent of apples? The boat we were told to get into for the legend cannot end
without us, without our participation? For it was us, no-one else, who are to
end this legend? And when we end it, we shall return to the shore, the
rudderless boat will wait for us, and we will have to get into it and drift
away and be swallowed by the mist? Morholt?"

"We are alive,
Branwen."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm touching you,
Branwen. You exist. Lying in my arms. You are beautiful, warm, you have a
smooth skin. You smell like my falcon sitting on my glove when I return from
hunting and the rain is rustling in the birch leaves. You are, Branwen."

"I am touching you,
Morholt. You exist. You are warm and your heart is beating just as strongly.
You smell of salt. You are."

"And so…we are
alive, Branwen."

She smiled. I didn't
see it. I felt that smile pressed into my arm.

 

Later, deep in the night, lying still with my arm numb from the weight of her head, careful not to
break her shallow sleep, I listened to the roaring of the sea.

 

For the first time
in my life this sound, dull and monotonous like toothache, made me feel uneasy,
irritated me, kept me awake. I was afraid. I was afraid of the sea. I, an
Irishman, brought up on a seashore, from birth familiar with the sound of the
surf.

Later still, in my
sleep, I saw a boat with a high, upturned stem and a mast adorned with
garlands. The rudderless boat, tossed on the waves. I could smell the scent of
apples.

 

"Good Lady Branwen…"
the page was gasping for breath. "Lady Iseult asks you to come to Sir Tristan's
chamber. You and Sir Morholt of Ulster. Please hurry, milady."

 

"What happened? Has
Tristan…?"

"No, it's not that.
But…"

"Speak, boy."

"The ship from
Tintagel… Sir Caherdin is coming back. There was a messenger from the cape.
It can be seen…"

"What colour are the
sails?"

"It's impossible to
say. The ship is too far, far beyond the cape."

The sun came out.

 

When we entered,
Iseult of the White Hands was standing with her back to the half-open window,
which threw off flashes of light from the little panes of glass fitted in
little lead frames. She was radiating an unnatural, turbid, deflected light.
Tristan, his face glossy with sweat, was breathing irregularly, with
difficulty. His eyes were closed.

 

Iseult looked at us.
Her face was drawn, disfigured by two deep furrows etched by pain on both sides
of her mouth.

"He is barely
conscious," she said. "He is delirious."

Branwen pointed to
the window:

"The ship…"

"It's too far,
Branwen. It's hardly passed the cape. It's too far…"

Branwen looked at
Tristan and sighed. I knew what she thought.

No, I didn't.

I heard it.

Believe me or not, I
heard their thoughts. Branwen's thoughts, anxious and full of fear, like waves
frothing amongst the shore's rocks. The thoughts of Iseult, soft, trembling,
fluttering like a bird held in the hand. The thoughts of Tristan, loose and
torn, like wisps of mist.

We are all at your
side, Tristan,
thought Iseult.
Branwen of Cornwall who is the Lady of Algae. Morholt of
Ulster, who is Decision. And I, who loves you, Tristan. I who love you more and
more with every minute that passes and takes you away from me, that takes you
away no matter what colour the sails of the ship approaching the shores of
Brittany. Tristan…

Iseult,
thought Tristan.
Iseult.
Why aren't they looking out of the window? Why are they looking at me? Why aren't
they telling me what colour the sails are? I must know it, I must, otherwise…

He will fall asleep,
thought Branwen.
He
will fall asleep and he will never wake up. He has reached the point as far
from the luminous surface as it is from the green algae covering the seabed.
The point where one stops struggling. From that point there is only peace.

Tristan,
thought Iseult.
Now
I know I was happy with you. Despite everything. Despite all the time you have
been with me and thought only about her. Despite you rarely calling me by my
name. You always called me "my lady". You've tried so hard not to hurt me. You
were trying so hard, putting so much effort into it that it was your very
trying that hurt me most. Yet I was happy. You've given me happiness. You've
given me the golden sparks flickering under my eyelids. Tristan…

Branwen was looking
out through the window. At the ship appearing slowly out from behind the land's
edge.
Hurry up,
she thought.
Hurry up, Caherdin. Sharp to the wind.
No matter what colour, turn your sail sharp to the wind, Caherdin. Hail,
Caherdin, welcome, we need your help. Save us, Caherdin…

But the wind, which
for the last three days had been blowing, freezing us and lashing us with rain,
now abated. The sun came out.

All of them,
thought Tristan.
All
of them. Iseult of the White Hands, Branwen, Morholt… And now I…Iseult, my
Iseult… What colour are the sails of this ship…? What colour…?